


Whisper to the Trees (and they'll do your bidding)

by captainBucky (GYPAFY)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, M/M, Pre-Serum, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, VERY TRIGGERY, Vomiting, no one dies, tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 14:38:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7577992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GYPAFY/pseuds/captainBucky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was only when Bucky reached his own front door that Steve realized there were silent tears streaming in waves down Bucky’s face. Steve realized then that Bucky might be able to spot him, he was too close, and started backing away before a scream tore out of Bucky and into the apartment.</p><p>Or, the one where Bucky tries to commit Suicide and Steve Stops him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whisper to the Trees (and they'll do your bidding)

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone is curious, this story is the first installment of I-use-stucky-as-an-outlet-for-insignificant-but-still-existing-grief, and the third installment of why-are-the-only-quality-fics-i-write-about-suicide.
> 
> There is more of this story to be posted if you all are interested. Enjoy!

Bucky Barnes lived in the minds of many citizens of New York. In a few of those minds, he was known as a friend, in some minds just by his name, and in others from just from glances around the streets of New York. 

Bucky Barnes walked around Brooklyn like he owned the ground he walked on. The smirk on his lips never seemed to leave as heads turned and watched confidence ooze off of him. He was not-so-subtly showing himself off as his eyes flicked through the crowd, often drawing giggles out of girls and low whistles from the men that dared. The street seemed to come up and meet each of his powerful steps, holding his body with a masculine grace every man aspired too.

To the people around him, Bucky was the epitome of effortless power. But Steve knew better.

Bucky Barnes lived in many parts of Steve Rogers’ mind. He existed in childhood memories, adventures they’d had, late night conversations, hazy burning memories of sickness, and adrenaline-fueled, crystal-clear scenes of fights they’d fought together.

Bucky also lived in phrases in Steve’s head. Words like: _I love you, I wish you were truly mine, but I’ll take what I can get and be damn grateful for it._

He knew Bucky’s routine. He could see the creases in the mask he wore, cracks in the confidence that everyone thought he had mastered. And he loved the true parts of Bucky so much more than the fake person he became to strangers.

Initially, Steve had not been worried when Bucky started coming over less and less. He knew the drill. Bucky would start going out more, start hanging out with him less. He’d pick up a girlfriend and Steve wouldn’t see him for awhile. Then he’d get tired of whatever dame it was this time, and Steve would get the attention he craved from his best friend. Then the cycle repeated.

So, initially, Steve had not been worried. Until he realized that there was no girl stealing his friend’s attention, and that his nights at the bar weren’t surrounded with women, but with increasing amounts of alcohol, as he stumbled to his home later and later.

Steve wondered, after awhile, if this was a new routine that Bucky wouldn’t snap out of. He still saw Bucky, but it happened less and less, and only when Steve went to Bucky’s apartment.

Steve honestly hadn’t meant to start trailing Bucky on these dark nights, but with such a drastic change in someone he cared about so much, he was worried and very curious.

So Steve watched as his friend declined, but still managed to put on a show for strangers that wanted to watch the suave, insincere act.

It was a hot summer night in 1936, about a week after Steve’s birthday, when Bucky stumbled out of a bar around 4am, Steve traveling in the shadows not far behind. The night wasn’t much unlike any another, but for whatever reason, Bucky’s wobbling body seemed to be stalling, taking unneeded paths as he made his way through dark streets.

Steve wondered for the thousandth time if he should reveal himself and help Bucky get home as he heard muffled sounds of pain come from the wobbling body. He remains hidden though, knowing that he’d be able to help if the other boy collapsed or anything worse happened.

It was only when Bucky reached his own front door that Steve realized there were silent tears streaming in waves down Bucky’s face. Steve realized then that Bucky might be able to spot him, he was too close, and started backing away before a scream tore out of Bucky and into the apartment.

“FUCK,” Bucky yelled, ripping voice echoing across the walls. The sound came right back at him and he let out a sob, and repeated “fuck,” quietly along with it.

Steve, though worried, was now more curious than he had been before. He kept still in his position, knowing he was too close, but reasoning with himself that Bucky seemed quite preoccupied. 

Bucky disappeared from his view briefly, coming back, surprisingly, with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. It was hard to tell in the light of the night, but they looked rather expensive.

Bucky disappeared from view again, coming back with a small bottle—not alcohol, it was a different shape—which he left on the table. Steve, confused continued watching as Bucky quickly downed the entire bottle of whiskey, threw the bottle down, and then poured himself a large glass of wine.

When his hand reached out next, he grabbed the smaller bottle instead of the wine, which remained on the table. He slowly opened the cap of the small bottle, hands shaking as he poured the entire contents— _pills,_ _god, so many fucking pills—_ into his hand, and then quietly, so quietly, into his mouth.

He clearly was having a hard time swallowing them all in his drunken state, but picked up the full wine glass.

“Cheers,” He slurred to the empty room, bitter and quiet, and then washed down the pills with the wine.

Steve had begun moving the second he saw the pills. He entered Bucky’s apartment, watching in horror as Bucky slumped back onto the couch.

He walked in front of Bucky, years of sickness finally coming to his aid as he knew to lean Bucky’s body over so he could make him throw up.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered open as Steve bent him over, and grabbed Steve’s hand. Bucky was still crying, but couldn’t seem to form words, his mouth falling open and his eyes crossing, but nothing coming out except choked breaths.

“It’s going to be okay,” Steve muttered, then, stuck his hand down Bucky’s throat forcefully, knowing what to feel for as he curled his fingers. Bucky’s body jerked, eyes going wide. He started jerking violently, chest erratically expanding and compressing as Steve continued pushing.

Finally, Bucky started throwing up, Steve moving his fingers out of the way after they were already covered in stomach bile and alcohol.

Bucky threw up in his own lap and all over the couch and the rug surrounding them, the burn in his throat practically choking him. His wobbly hands made their way to his own throat, and his blurry mind was begging, _pleading_ for something, but Steve held him upright, rubbed his back, said, “keep going,” and Bucky bowed his head. Only to jerk back up as Steve hit his back and more fluid came out of him. He didn’t even feel human anymore, his body wasn’t in his control and every _everysingle_ part of him hurt, except where Steve’s hand was rubbing up along his back.

The vomiting continued for too long until all that was coming up was bright yellow bile against the faded white of Bucky’s carpet. Bucky couldn’t open his eyes, he couldn’t move his body, but the tiny part of him that was still conscious clung desperately to the consistency of the warm hand on his back.

Then suddenly, the voice in his ear,

“It’s alright Buck, you’re going to be okay.”

And finally, Bucky passed out, weak beyond what he ever thought he could stand, mind, limbs, and throat burning, but alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Though I know all of you are here to read fic and not deal with other people's problems, long story short, this was written as a coping mechanism and reaction to a death in my family (not a suicide) that I had a pretty bad experience with.
> 
> That being said, this story will always mean a lot to me in whatever ways it exists, and I hope you have enjoyed it. There is more of it already written, I'll post it and continue if you all like it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
